


Terror, the Human Form Divine

by kolosundil



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Fisting, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Psychological Torture, Rape, at least i don't think it's very graphic, let's do this, uh ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kolosundil/pseuds/kolosundil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guilliman gets a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terror, the Human Form Divine

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Unremembered Empire. Possibly happens after it, possibly during, possibly not at all. Not for weak stomachs.
> 
> A big thank you to lord mariusgaaazzh, for title and for suffering through my writing process.

He had lost track of time. Or, he was aware of the moment. He was also aware of the passage of time, in several different measures at once. Standard Terra time was 300110217-03:07:39. Macragge's local time. Armatura's local time.

The Mark of Calth, counting, ever-present in his brain, like constant background noise since that very day. The theoretical of time was clear. But the practical evaded him. He couldn't make a sound. He couldn't move. No, he wouldn't move.

He would -not- move.

The body that had been built for the worst possible circumstances was now useless. Useless against the shadow that dominated it.

It was this inability to move, this absolute stillness of body and mind, that crippled his practical understanding of the concept of time.

Therefore, he trusted to memory. If something had passed, then there was a past. And if there was a past, there was also a present. Solid theoretical.

What did he remember?

Everything.

What could he recall?

Not much.

His bedchamber. Dark, completely so. But the corridors around it were all brightly lit. To chase shadow away, Guilliman had employed light.

But where there was day, there was always night as well. And to the Lord of the Night, there was no unbreachable door, no unknown crevice.

He had awoken in the middle of the night, for no apparent reason. Something in the air...? He could see nothing, even with his unparalleled senses. Had he... imagined it? Laughable concept. He sat up on the bed, gathering strength into his limbs.

But he never got the time. With a soft buzz, and momentarily blinding light, lightning claws activated against his throat. He swallowed the sound he was about to make.

Perhaps he was still asleep. It was entirely possible, for what he was seeing could only be the product of a nightmare. Eyes so black, they seemed entirely absent, in loose, wrinkled sockets. A head like a skull, skin seeming to barely hang off bones, bones that... Throne, even his bones seemed sharp. Mouth gaping in an unnaturally wide grin, showing blackened, needle-sharp teeth. Dark hair, a mass of knots and split ends framing a face the colour of spoilt, stinking milk.

"Don't be scared," the thing spoke. His brother, Guilliman corrected himself, for that was what he was, no matter where he had ended up, no matter what depths he had fallen into.

He thought of the words, attempting to form a theoretical. If he spoke, if he made a single movement, then the monster-no, his brother damn it!- would slit his throat. He could fight him, but in the darkness, and unarmed, against Curze...? He would fight him back, and he would win. If he did not intend to kill him, then he would at the very least kill all who came to his aid.

The words themselves were laced with irony. Fear. He knew no fear, or so he had said, on more instances than one could recall.

A mocking reassurance, a promise for greater horror yet, an empty echo of all Guilliman has ever stood for.

The Night Haunter, as he so liked to call himself, slid closer, straddled his hips. The vision was something between obscene, and uncanny. The heat of the claws touched his neck. It burned. The scent of his own scorched skin rose to his nostrils. He dragged in a breath.

Curze's armor stunk of blood, old and new as well. It was different from Guilliman's, fitted tightly to his brother's body, in a colour that must have once been midnight blue. The edges are sharp, the pauldrons heavily reinforced, and it allowed for a freedom of movement beyond standard plate. A black, shredded cloak hid the curves of his body, though Guilliman could only imagine him made out of angles.

All that, and much more, went through Guilliman's mind in a matter of fractions of a second. He fully assessed the situation, and created the practical: Do not move. Let him be appeased, and figure out how to kill him when he has less of a crippling disadvantage.

Curze was aware of these thoughts. Not all of them, but he knew how Guilliman would react already. The visions aligned themselves in his mind at the confirmation, as the present gave way, and every possibility of Guilliman fighting him faded. Good.

He was the master of psychological warfare, between all his brothers. And there was nothing that could demoralize a man faster than this. One of the claws deactivated, and slowly, deliberately traced down the sheets. He uncovered the other Primarch entirely.

Curze had almost expected him to sleep clothed. He took a look down at him, and saw what his body could have been like, had he had anything close to sufficient nutrition. It didn't matter. In all its apparent... Perfection, if the mind was crippled, there was nothing to be done.

He moved his claws away from Guilliman's throat. With perfect care, he clicked one gauntlet off, and allowed it to drop to the mattress, at Guilliman's feet.

He was not moving, not one inch. Curze was almost disappointed, at the lack of resistance.

Lord Guilliman, like his sense of time, stood still. If his attacker had made any sense, then he would have at least attempted to gather himself.

All notions of theoretical and practical faded away. If only Curze's movements had made any sense.. If only they had any rhythm..

But no. He moved like water and oil. Atonal, unrestricted, disregarding every known rule that governed the human body, limbs swift as a whip, and in the same moment, expressing the languidity of a feline. One in comfort.

And then the pain began. The pain.. One would have thought that it would have brought him back to reality. It was just as erratic, as unbalanced as everything about the man on top of him was.

Nails, sharp as the lightning claws themselves, raked against his chest, his abdomen, thighs and-

He swallowed his scream immediately as the lightning claws buzzed against his throat.

"Shhh..."

Pain, so much pain... Blood.

If only he could have been fast, rough. If only he could've just mounted him, hard, and quickly, and then left him in peace.

Or something akin to peace. There had been none for months. And this, this only made the situation that much worse.

He feared Curze. More than anything, but it was a deeply personal horror. It was not the shudder that passed him, when one spoke of Horus, nor the involuntary tension of recall, that accompanied Lorgar in his thoughts. This was not a rational fear, one that could be broken down into theoreticals and practicals, and therefore faced and defeated. No.

Fingers dug into him with sharp, sharp nails at the fore.

He swallowed the sounds in his throat, clutched onto the sheets. There was a knife under his pillow. But there were also claws at his throat. He didn't need an analysis to figure which would be faster.

"Why."

The question seemed to give his brother pause. He stopped moving, and instead, curled his fingers slowly. Guilliman twitched and shuddered, as nails scraped.

He scratched. Throne, he scratched, and the Primarch of the Ultramarines could do nothing but tense, even more.

Curze thought the question over. He couldn't find an answer. Not a satisfying one, anyway. Why... Was a why required? He could tell himself he wished to demoralize him. It was true. Why? Because he was an enemy.

But, Curze suspected, what Guilliman was asking went beyond that. There was no why. There was only the inevitable ruin that was in store for them all.

He can already see Guilliman die, die a million different deaths, one here, one on the way to Terra, one of Terra itself, many impaled on Alpharius' sword, one at Lorgar's hands on Calth, another in Angron's.

Many wanted a piece of him. So did Curze. Perhaps that was why. He loathed the arrogant bastard's success in everything. How he turned all he touched into gold.

He scraped harder.

Two fingers became three, and three four, and then all five. No screaming. Good boy, he thought.

Guilliman's perception of time began to fade out. The pain was too much, the humiliation unbearable. The helplessness was the worst. His brain had stopped rushing to possible theoreticals and practicals, as they all met into one horrible realisation. There was nothing, nothing he could do to avoid this.

Or, there was. But the outcome would end up in worse pain. If not for him, then for his warriors. If only he could hurt the creature on top of him. Kill him. Break him. Hatred surged from deep within, the mindless hatred of a man whose every dream was torn down.

Kill them all. When the time came, there would be no mercy. Not for Curze, not for Angron, not for Lorgar. Especially not for Lorgar.

And it seemed to him, like the creature on top of him didn't want it in the first place.

All the better.

Curze leaned over him. He was grinning that empty, wide smile that Guilliman could see when his eyes closed. That grin could not be captured within the confines of logic. Could only be explained by a madman.

And Guilliman, as time passed, and the large, tight fist pushed within him, bringing him to new limits of pain with every movement, felt like he was beginning to understand it.

Futility. Utter futility. The smile of a dead man. Did he know? Were those erratic visions that his brothers have told him of indicative of a man's own death? Or was it just that everything around him crumbled down?

It went on, and on, and on, paceless, endless, hopeless pain. _Don't make it worse. Don't move. Just don't do anything. You will hurt him later._

 _You will kill him later._ Curze could almost hear the thought, and he laughed at it. The sound was close to relief.

He finally pulled his hand out, covered in blood, and... thicker, red matter stuck under his nails.

Curze leaned down, and he kissed him, full, slow, gentle. Mocking. His breath stunk of old blood and flesh. His tongue was long and dark, and slipped in his mouth without resistance. The bastard was tasting him.

He remained there, unmoving, ten different clocks all ticking in his mind, and still no practical.

His brother pulled back. His hair touched Guilliman's face, and it felt like worms crawled all over him. The claw was withdrawn.

Time snapped back into place. One hour, sixteen minutes, and 43 seconds. Guilliman moved like smoke, his hand sliding under the pillow, to grab the hilt of his knife, to sit up, and...

He stabbed air. As fast as he'd appeared, Curze was gone.

Gone...  
  
He breathed out, and he fell back on the bed. Everything below his stomach was sore, and he was bleeding. No matter. It would fix itself.

Guilliman kept his eyes open. His hands trembled.

_300110217-04:01:23..._

_300110217-04:01:24..._

_300110217-04:01:25..._


End file.
